Mr. Chetan sat there sipping coffee and skinning his teeth at me.
—Miss Betty, relaxing is not a crime. Live a little. Best to do things while you still have your own teeth in your mouth.
I nearly sprayed the coffee I was drinking all over myself.
—Don’t make me laugh. I’m a long way from false teeth. And you’re a fine one to talk. When last you went out? Once you have a book or TV you don’t go nowhere. The only time you move is if Solo begs you to go football. I lie?
—I need a second coffee.
While he was in the kitchen my mind traveled back to last night. Behind my eyes it was all there. Sunil would never in a million years do the things that man did. Have mercy. I swear the man mistook me for a ripe Julie mango. Jesus, Mary, and Joseph. That was something else. My whole body was on fire. A voice put that memory on pause.
—We out of sugar?
—No. Try the cupboard next to the fridge.
One more time. I want that feeling one more time and then I’ll let go. He wanted to know what I liked. I never even knew I was missing this until now. Sunil was the same two positions in the same order. Once he was done that was that. And he never, ever did it sober. Always had to have drink inside him. Last night, well, that was a whole next universe. From looking at the man you would never know. People might say he’s average. Not so. The man’s smoking hot. Lethal. For months now he would pass and touch my arm or my back and his hand would linger a tups longer than was strictly necessary for a Bible group friend. I didn’t want to admit it but even the lightest touch would zing through my spine. Now that I’ve had a taste I just want one more. Sin is sin. I know that. Just one more time and I could finish with that. Lord, why you show me this only to torment my soul?
I didn’t say a word to a soul. I got up easy easy, put water and a couple beers in the cooler, and slipped away before the rest of the house was awake. In traffic the drive can be all kind of two and a half hours. But on a Sunday before six o’clock? Man, I was dipping my toes in Maracas Bay in under two hours. Whenever I can spare the time that is my spot. Half the pull is the beach and half is the spectacular drive to reach there. If your heart’s weak, or you’re timid, leave the driving to others. The roads are narrow and winding as they hug the sides of the Northern Range. Lose the fear of being pushed off the precipice by some crazy-ass driver and enjoy as each hairpin twist unveils another breathtaking view of lush green mountains rising from the turquoise sea.
For once I would have preferred an even longer drive to clear my head. Only a handful of people were on the beach. Come this afternoon it will be a different story. A clump of coconut trees to the left had my name on it and I settled down with my cooler and beach chair. Two minutes of my feet wiggling around in the sand and any fretting or worries vanish one time. Add to that the roaring sea and I chill right down. I pulled in a lungful of the salty air. People busy swallowing one set of drugs to cope with life when what they need is a regular dose of the sea.
As the tide was going out the beach was wider than usual and perfect for a stroll. Maybe it was the vastness of the sand, or the postcard perfect bay of sea and sky blues—whatever it was, it made me still inside. With that peace filling my lungs I set off to cover the length of the bay. The few people strolling gave each other plenty space with the unspoken understanding that if you’re walking this long beach alone, at this hour, you’re not looking to make friends.
Different days see me here for different things. Sometimes it’s to recharge. Mostly I come to forget. Today I have a purpose. It’s time to make up my mind once and for all. It’s not the first or even the tenth occasion I’ve pounded this sand threatening not to leave until I’ve decided one way or another. Normally I don’t have a religious bone in my body but if the big man up there is listening, please, send me a sign, any sign. These 3 A.M. awakenings, staring at the ceiling, can’t keep happening. It’s barely eight o’clock yet and my mind is exhausted.
The sun was beginning to hint at the sting it would inflict by midday. I planned to finish my walk then jump in the sea to cool off. From my starting point in the middle of the bay I headed left to one end where a small river emptied into the sea. Within minutes I was lost, hearing only the pounding rhythm of the breaking waves. Footprints of a man walking ahead of me, a little larger than mine, formed a trail and I began stepping into them, my imprint mixing with his. It was a childish game. I soon noticed the owner of the footprints—the color of whole wheat toast and sporting an unruly afro. Surely he must know that those tiny pum-pum shorts are plain distraction for man and woman alike. I couldn’t tell his age. He ain’t young but he was in decent shape. Snatches of his profile when he glanced around or looked out to sea showed sideburns and a sculptured beard. Early forties maybe? Sweat glistened off his chiseled cheekbones and collarbones. A thick mustache partly covered his cherry thick lips and once again I was butting up against that eternal dilemma. This is what makes my knees weak and my heart race. Why can’t I want something else? Why can’t I lust after what I have at home instead?
My whole life has been a lie. What do I get staying as I am? Nothing. Alone forever. Imagine a man my age without a full adult relationship under his belt. And if you ask me that boat’s probably sailed. Maybe in my head I did once, sort of, have a thing going but nothing was ever said. Occasionally, I chance a club in Port of Spain. Even though it’s far from San Fernando you never know who you might bounce up. Feeling alive, no, feeling anything at all, is mainly a few intense, crazy minutes in a restroom in the grocery or the mall. When I think of it like that it doesn’t seem worth it. Yet it’s those few moments when I’m complete—the whole me. But with Miss Betty, with her I could have something else, something precious.
Pum-Pum Shorts stopped at his pitch in the sand. With a towel he slowly wiped the glistening sweat from his face and hairy chest, then spread the towel on the sand. My chair was further on. This man might be what I want but he is not what I need. Not today. Want and need were jamming. I commanded myself to keep walking. Just keep walking. In the middle of this battle he turned. We connected. He turned away then looked back at me a second time. I gave him the look, the one that lingers a couple seconds too long, the one that says, I am horny as fuck for you. Even something so subtle out in the open is risky. Imagine my shock when this hot thing, sweet as Demerara sugar, returned the look. I stopped, pretending to take in the sea view. Inside I was grinning from my mouth to my groin. Out of the corner of my eye I knew he too was snatching a glance at me. Me. I walked over and sat near enough to talk but not so close that I was in the man’s space. Neither of us said a word. The tension was building up. Was he feeling the vibes? Had I got it wrong? I needed a word or a movement, something to justify me staying here. I found myself announcing to the wind,
—The sea looking real good this morning.
He nodded, smiled, but didn’t speak. Damn. One more minute listening to the pounding roar of waves crashing and I gone. Maybe because I was good with walking away the panic eased. With each awkward, passing moment I was sure this heavenly doux-doux darling would leave. No worries. I came to the beach for peace. The sensible thing would be to make tracks. But my cock and my head had different opinions. When I should have been moving on I began shifting ever so slightly closer. Still nothing. Well, I tried. Head, heart, cock—all of we accepted this brown sugar god wasn’t happening. I was about to go my way when he announced to the wind and the sea,